Elegy
by Lafayette1777
Summary: In which Bond returns, but only in increments.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I haven't posted on in a while because I've spent the last year or so writing mainly RPF on my AO3 account, but SPECTRE has thrown me head long back into Bond love so here I am again! Thanks for reading!**

It starts small.

He receives a package. Specifically, a repurposed Amazon parcel with the old address scribbled over to write in the number of Q's flat. It's an oblong box, larger than it needs to be; Q shakes it and the rattle suggests that the object is small and not in the vein of any regular geometric shape. There is no return address. He has it scanned, despite a growing intuition concerning what is inside. So when he finally slides a kitchen shearing knife down the middle crease of the cardboard lid, what he finds doesn't surprise him at all.

The severed brake pedal of a familiar 1964 Aston Martin.

The sabotage is intentional, it would appear, which makes Q scowl when he remembers the hours he put into rebuilding that bloody car. Cryptic, ungrateful bastard. Still, though, the acrimony subsides, because the message is clear. When he exchanges looks with Moneypenny, Tanner, and Mallory, their mirrored expressions confirm his theory.

Bond has his foot on the gas again.

Which is more than can be said for the rest of MI6 - the post crisis reshuffling is a clusterfuck comparable to the one after the incident at Skyfall. And, again, Q gets himself tangled in it. His orders are conflicting; Tuesday he's told to delete all double-O files and by Wednesday they've reinstated the program completely. By Thursday they're running missions again. Tomorrow, he suspects, there will be some sort of international incident and all of it will be up in the air once again.

007 remains absent, his dubious resignation note of a few weeks ago still going unread on M's desk. Q goes to great lengths not to think about it, but the brake pedal that now sits at the edge of his desk next to a snub nose Walther has a tendency to steal his concentration. Skyfall, again, rises in his mind like a growing flame - it was at this point in the chaos of the aftermath, then, that he and Bond had begun their little dance, only to leave it unresolved.

Now, it seems he's missed his chance, even if the pedal tries to persuade him otherwise.

It's calling to him from the deepest pocket of his winter coat when he comes into work on Tuesday, dreading whatever committee will call him up today. Mallory seems considerably less enthused about civilian oversight now that it's got a knife at his throat. Tanner's lost a stone just from the stress of the last three weeks and every time Q's laid eyes on Eve, she's been up to her eyeballs in phone calls and emails and everything she could've avoided if she stayed in the field. They've all taken to telling each other to _fuck off and have a nap_ whenever they pass in the halls, but it's always with a wry smirk and remnant of the adrenaline rush that sometimes doesn't feel as if it's worn off yet.

In Q-Branch, there's a letter on his desk.

No return address. But he knows the handwriting - the looping g's had been a source of over-the-comms banter for weeks. Q smirks a little, and instinctually surveys the rest of the room. He pokes his head out and asks Julian if anyone had been in before him. The answer is a no, and Q isn't shocked in the slightest. He returns to the envelope and slips a finger beneath the edge, drawing the slightest of line of blood when he goes at it a little too enthusiastically.

Inside, there are instructions.

How Bond knows any of this, he can't fathom - but it confirms that 007 has been anything but stagnant in his time away. Q quickly switches to a less valuable laptop and makes sure the necessary proxy servers are still in place. His anonymity assured, he dives in; the address the instructions lead him to is beneath even the usual hub of deep web espionage. It's slow work to get below the illegal trade and the faux government intelligence. He's dipped into the deep web many times, sometimes for work and sometimes out of boredom. The lawman part of him is made twitchy by it, because there's nothing he can do when presented with the sorts of things he's meant to prevent. He'd tried, once, and had been presented with the kind of look from his superiors that suggested they knew exactly what he was talking about and had already decided not to do a thing about it.

When he arrives where Bond intends him to, he's presented with what appears to be the transcript of a previous chatroom conversation, wherein every message had been written in a particularly impenetrable-looking code. Still, there's something about it that immediately sets off alarms in Q; it practically screams SPECTRE activity, or at least Quantum. He saves the page and wonders if the combined minds of himself, Moneypenny, Tanner, and Mallory will be able to unravel it, because Bond's left no hints. The letter is blank, save the chatroom address. Defiantly terse. That is, until Q flips it over and catches the black ink on the back.

 _For you._

Q smirks a little at that, because it seems far more likely that this particular tidbit Bond has left him is entirely self-serving. Bond has torn off on one of his periodic vendettas and, as per usual, Q is his pathetic and willing accomplice. He smirks, but it's only because his devotion is utterly pitiful, and Bond knows it.

m m m

"Well, someone has to state the obvious," Moneypenny says, inspecting the print out that still awaits decoding. "They're coming for Blofeld."

M's face shows its usual mild concern when confronted with catastrophe. He murmurs, "That's clearly what Bond suspects."

Tanner is perched on the edge of Q's desk, lips set in a hard line. "If they manage to get Blofeld out of Belmarsh, we should hire them. Because that would be bloody amazing. There's no one higher priority than him."

Mallory frowns further. "Any luck with decoding it, Q?"

"I've got four people on it, including myself, and we still haven't developed a key," Q laments. "But I am inclined to trust 007's judgement on this." Over the last few days, he's been contemplating whether Bond even knows what the decoded conversation says, or if he, too, is functioning on suspicion alone. It wouldn't be the first time.

"He _does_ have an unfortunate tendency to be right," Moneypenny concedes. "Despite the body count he wracks up to prove it."

At this, Q wonders (not for the first time) of what has become of Dr. Swann. Bond does have a track history of forging bonds while under the influence of alcohol, adrenaline, and traumatic brain injuries. And some of his more sociopathic tendencies usually cement the feeling as mutual amongst the women unfortunate enough to end up in the crossfire. Inevitably, they end up dead or disenchanted; if Bond is on the move again, then one of the two has happened, and Q hopes for Madeleine's sake that it's the latter.

"Well, this isn't much to go on." M has turned his gaze back on Q. "Until it's decoded there's very little information I can pass on to anyone who might be useful."

The strictly logical part of Q is aware that it's a little nonsensical that they all trust Bond's risk assessment so implicitly. But this is what he does, or at least what he does to them; they follow him to the ends of the Earth, but he just keeps running. He's a fundamental theorem, Q muses. The doing and the undoing of all of them.

"I'll keep working at it," Q promises, perfectly conscious of the fact that they are the puppets and Bond holds the strings.

m m m

They've never shared a bed, or even a kiss, and yet the pillow beside him seems colder than ever. Before long a solidly built tabby cat meanders up to claim it, settling in to gaze at Q with a pair of languid tawny eyes and an expression somewhere between adoration and indifference.

Against his better judgement, he's taken to carrying around both the brake pedal and Bond's note with him at all times. Now, the objects stare at him from the bedside table, the words _for you_ standing dark against the glow of a streetlamp outside. He should be asleep, but that's never been his strong suit. And Bond knew it, too. He'd always had a knack for arriving in Q-Branch with a cup of tea and a flirtatious smirk just when the circles were darkest beneath Q's eyes, just when the resulting smile seemed most difficult and most necessary.

Now, though, his absence is the root of all evil. Q shouldn't feel as betrayed as he does, but he's awake and it's three in the morning and the feeling is natural. Liebniz, the cat, head butts Q's outstretched hand affectionately. Newton's whiskers brush against his toes where they stick out the edge of the duvet. Bond never specified whether he likes cats or not, but Q suspects he does. There's always been something a little feline about him.

m m m

He's slipping into his anorak when he sees it. It's a postcard from Singapore, folded three or four times into a neat square still thin enough to have been slipped under his door. Q hasn't slept much; he wonders idly if he was awake when it was delivered, but was too far from the door to notice. Bond is very close indeed.

He unfolds it smoothly.

 _Stay safe. Soon._

Q frowns at Bond's tendency toward crypticism. It seems unnecessary but, then again, the same could be argued for 007's tuxedos and vodka martinis. And Bond is a creature of habit, after all. Women and death and rebelling authority and, over everything else, Queen and Country. He's a ghost, doomed to repeat old patterns ad infinitum. A specter.

He adds the postcard to the pocket with the other one and the pedal, all of it weighing him down with every step.

m m m 

Eve arrives in his office by noon, not on any official business. She usually appears at some point to say hello, or bitch about her boyfriend, or listen attentively to whatever Q's latest bitch-worthy misfortune is. Today, though, she comes bearing a rainbow cake pop and a smirk.

"It's 009's birthday," she explains, clearing away a few prototype grenades in order to perch on the edge of his desk.

"Is she still mad about-"

"Yes." Eve snorts, and motions to the cake pop. "I only managed to smuggle that out by telling her it was for Mallory."

"It's hardly my fault that everything wilts beneath Bond's touch," he says, but it's not as lighthearted as he wants it to be. The champagne he'd left in place of the DB10, though, _was_ lovely. Q had wondered at the time if Bond had intended for them to share it. "Speaking of which, something happened this morning."

Moneypenny's eyebrows raise. There's something in the twitch of her left hand toward an imaginary sidearm that reminds Q that she's more similar to Bond than anyone will acknowledge. "Nothing major," he says quickly. "Just this."

He hands over the postcard. By the motion of her eyes, she reads it over several times before she hands it back, despite its brevity. "Well, you _are_ his favorite." She smirks again, returning the creased card.

"What gives you that impression?"

"Don't be daft," she retorts, and then laughs with her head thrown back and her curls bobbing. He's struck, then, by the surreality of it all - C is dead, it's 009's birthday, Eve is laughing. And Bond is coming home.

m m m 

One piece.

On an autumn Tuesday, Belmarsh prison burns to the ground for reasons unknown. Some inmates escape, some don't. To no one's surprise, Blofeld is unaccounted for. There is no trace of him, but they've seen this act before. He'd never managed to fully decode the deep web intelligence from Bond, which is embarrassing, but somehow he doubts it would have made any difference in the long run. Inevitability steps in all too often.

Q arrives on scene to find only the husk of the major cell block, the air still thick with ash and dust. Moneypenny and M are already there; Tanner is on his way. Together, they join the search effort, and wander through the ruins. Q half expects Bond himself to rise from the gray haze.

As it happens, he does.

A week later, Q is locking the door to his office with one hand and checking his phone for the time with the other. It's after midnight; he spares a glance and a wave at the oasis of light to his left that is the night shift in Q-Branch, guiding any Double-Os still in the field. Q will be on call all night, of course, but his flat has been deemed secure enough in times of crisis.

Crisis. He supposes that's what they're in now, even if it hardly feels like it. Blofeld's at large - theoretically, SPECTRE is mobilizing again. And yet it still feels like 009's birthday, like the squint of Eve's eyes when she laughs. He can't muster any panic.

( _What's to be done?_ he'd asked, the day after they'd officially deemed Blofeld escaped. The question wasn't new. It had always been there. Except once upon a time there seemed to be answer. _Lead Silva to Skyfall_ or _Make me disappear_ or _I need one more favor_.)

He adjusts the brake pedal in his jacket pocket.

It's after midnight, and outside a mist dampens the shoulders of his coat and the ends of his hair. Visibility is low, or at least that's what he tells himself after the fact to calm the discomfort at his own obliviousness. Regardless, he's already thinking about a shower and warm sheets and Leibniz and Newton by the time a familiar shape steps from the shadows around the door to his building.

And, for a moment, it feels a little like time stops.

"Well, it's about bloody time," Q says, to keep himself from doing something rash. The urge to kiss Bond is unexpectedly strong; he balls a fist and sucks in a breath until it passes.

Bond smirks. "Missed me, did you?"

Q just snorts, unlocking the door. Bond follows him in without an invitation, and watches as Q presses the button for the lift. "We need you," he says quietly, pushing at his glasses. "As per usual."

"I knew you would," Bond replies, but it's not smug. Q barely has time to register the strange tone of his voice before there's movement - Bond's leaning over and kissing Q on the edge of his mouth. Gently, as if it's what they've always done. As if tenderness beyond a few longing looks and complimentary cups of tea is something to be expected.

"Bond." It's not a question, or a warning. The lift doors slide open, but neither of them breaks eye contact.

"So, Blofeld's escaped, then," Bond says finally, stepping into the elevator.

"Yes." Q follows him, words and steps uneven. "I...we need you," he repeats, feeling dull and off-kilter. Bond just smiles that smile of his that usually doesn't reach past his mouth, but today Q thinks he might see something of it penetrate the blue above. "Are you ready to get back to work, 007?"

Bond reaches for his hand, intertwines their fingers with a sigh. This is not their usual dance; unfamiliarity washes over him, but he doesn't choke. Q can't help but think that Bond has not returned in one piece, but that maybe the piece that made it back is a starting point. The beginning of a dance for two.

They meet eyes just as the doors ping open. "With pleasure, Q."


	2. Chapter 2

Q isn't really sure what to do, so he decides to drink.

And contrary to popular belief, he's actually quite good at it - though he's certainly nowhere near Bond's level of imperturbability, he's no lightweight, so when he pulls vodka out of his kitchen cabinet it's potent enough to have the agent raising an impressed eyebrow. Two shots are poured, and then Bond seats himself on Q's settee without asking.

"Welcome home," Q toasts, lifting his glass just as Leibniz climbs casually into Bond's lap.

Bond's eyes dart around Q's flat for the shortest of seconds, as though evaluating whether this really is _home_. He shrugs, almost imperceptibly, then throws back the shot as though it were water, all the while scratching under Leibniz's chin. "Thank you, Q."

Q doesn't know what to do about the kiss downstairs, so he decides to ignore it, moving instead to refill their glasses with one hand and text Moneypenny with the other. Bond doesn't bother to ask what he's doing, but contemplates the cat in his lap. "You said there were two, yes?"

Q raises an eyebrow at him. "Newton's not as sociable."

"Shame," Bond replies, directing a fond, if distant, smile at Leibniz.

"Remarkable, what you did a few months ago," Q says, collecting their glasses. Something derisive sneaks into his tone when he adds, "You shot down a helicopter with a handgun."

Bond just blinks. "I do what I want."

"Clearly," Q mutters, and if it comes out a little bitter, he won't admit it. It takes enormous willpower not to ask about Dr. Swann, but there's something about Bond that seems a little unkempt - aesthetically, he's as immaculate as ever, but there's a hesitation in the motion of his limbs and the blink of his eyes. As though he's trying too hard to not be strange at all.

"We should go," Q declares, before Bond fills the silence with something charming that will leave Q forced to swallow back a smile. He glances at his mobile. "The team is waiting."

"The team?" Bond asks, moving stiffly to his feet after gently removing Leibniz from his lap.

Maybe it's the liquor, but Q stops at the door smirks back at him. "Your bloody fan club."

m m m 

Moneypenny's not wearing heels, which is unusual in and of itself; the death glare she sends Bond confirms that he's called her into work from what was meant to be a relaxing evening. Mallory doesn't look as though he's left the office in a week, and Tanner's far too professional to lean one way or the other.

And Bond, of course, just lifts the corner of his mouth in something resembling a greeting.

"Nice of you to show up," M mutters. "Bit late, though, isn't it?"

" _I'm_ not the one who let Blofeld escape, even with advanced warning," Bond retorts.

At this, Q can't stay silent. "Then why didn't you come back and secure him yourself? If we're too incompetent to crack your cryptic little messages."

The mirth drains from Bond's eyes so fast Q wants to take a step back. But, if there's anything he's learned from working with double-Os, it's never to show them reluctance of any sort. "I was busy," Bond says quietly, and somehow he manages to sever the subject right there.

"So, are you fit for duty, 007?" Moneypenny sneers.

"You can ground me if you like but you know that's never worked in the past," Bond quips back.

"You'll have to go through the physical again," M sighs, nonplussed. "Hopefully it'll go better than the last time you decided to disappear."

Bond looks as though he might roll his eyes, if it weren't so much effort.

"You're lucky," Mallory continues, shifting through a pile of manilla envelopes on his desk. "Not only are we all still employed-"

"Though obviously you couldn't be arsed to care about _that_ ," Moneypenny cuts in, not quite friendly.

Mallory sends her a glance that she ignores. "But the double-O program still exists and your number hasn't been reassigned. Can't imagine why." He picks up the phone insouciantly without looking up. "You have a pattern, 007."

He doesn't say anything else, but the message hangs in the air.

 _We knew you'd be back._

Q's glad that they're not the only ones who are a bit pathetic.

"Report to Medical at seven hundred hours," Tanner says finally, rubbing tiredly at one eye. Bond nods rigidly, but the air in the room has grown so close that Q is already heading for the door before he sees it. He half expects Bond to follow him, but by the time he's on the tube he knows better. He shouldn't feel so betrayed; about any of it, really. Bond, indeed, does what he wants.

m m m 

He spends the night hacking NATO for recreational purposes and listening to Leonard Cohen so loud he's sure the neighbors will bitch him out personally by sunrise. They don't, but Newton knocks over a glass around six and shatters Q's groove - suddenly he can't focus on the music or the code in front of him, and eventually he finds himself on the balcony, smoking for no reason whatsoever.

The street below is cold and blue but just behind the apartments in front of him an orange glow is beginning to permeate. He ignores it in favor of calculating where the best sniper positions would be on the building opposite. Since Blofeld's been loose, he's started wearing his shoulder holster again - and not just because it makes him think of Bond. It's not an action inspired by panic, but rather a numb acceptance. He'd thought that after Skyfall things would calm down for good, that routines would develop and simplicity would manifest itself. He knows, now, that crisis constant, and ultimately meaningless. They will clean every flat surface only to see it dirtied again.

How Bond manages to both kill and confront death for such futile purposes and still stay upright, Q can't fathom.

Q lets the cigarette whittle down until it nearly burns the delicate skin between his fingers. He acknowledges, with something like smugness, that self destruction doesn't always have to be limited to double-Os.

m m m 

By noon he goes into work and gets so caught up in a welding project that he ignores his mobile. It's uncharacteristic of him to lose the big picture, but perhaps it's because every action he's taken lately has started to feel like a microcosm of something larger. Moneypenny eventually finds his silence worrisome enough that she makes it down to Q-Branch to tap him on the shoulder, and nearly gets herself torched for her trouble.

After Q has pulled up his mask and apologized profusely for solid five minutes, she finally delivers the message she'd intended. "Bond's just passed his physical."

Q raises an eyebrow, stripping off his heavy gloves. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Well, he did show up at _your_ flat first," she replies, and then eyes him shrewdly. "Did anything-"

"I poured him a drink and then he attempted to woo my cats." He turns his gaze on his desk in order to hide any hesitation that might give himself away. It's not quite a lie, but it certainly feels as though it's edging close to one.

"Not Newton, surely."

"No, Leibniz." He looks up and smiles at her fondly. "Newton isn't quite so cheap."

She sits down heavily in a stray rolling chair, head lolling back. "Bond keeps bringing you up in conversation, you know. Even when it's hardly necessary."

"He's probably just getting eager to see what toys I've made him in his absence," Q retorts. "Not that he has any respect for them."

There's nothing convincing about his tone, though, and Eve sends him a smile that's almost pitying.

After she's gone, he ends up working on the biometrics in a handgun that he suspects will end being relinquished to Bond. And, against his will, he's reminded of that first Walther the agent had lost under his command - into the stomach of a komodo dragon, as it were. He'd thought it was bald-faced lie when he'd first read the report on it. Entirely too ridiculous to be true. But in the years since, that particular instance has facilitated his belief that Bond must be something of an absurd hero, to be able to look upon both the ludicrous nature of his work as well the void of death and destruction he leaves in his wake and greet both with only a halfway amused smirk. Every near death experience, every villain removed from power only to be replaced - all of it inevitably meaningless, and yet Bond isn't deterred. There's something in that that Q admires, even if he's not sure he wants to replicate it in himself.

Time breaks down. The work is slow but then suddenly it's midnight, and Julian is telling him gently that he'll take care of 008 in Burkina Faso until tomorrow. Q nods, and doesn't thank him as he should, before wandering outside toward the underground. He contemplates, on the tube, whether the combination of the brake pedal in his pocket and the sidearm under his coat makes him look lumpy.

m m m 

Two days later, and he's meandering toward M's office with an armload of approved budget figures. His eyes dart up from the floor when he hears a familiar rumbling voice and Moneypenny's crisp reply.

"I see you've gotten better at dodging your psych evaluation," Eve is murmuring, and then there's the flip of paper and a snort. "Only substance abuse and unresolved childhood trauma this go around."

"What can I say," is the, undoubtedly smirking, reply. "My resurrection skills are improving."

"It is absolutely fucking absurd that they cleared for you duty in three days," Q says, entering abruptly and letting the files drop heavily from his arms onto Moneypenny's desk.

"Don't hold back." Moneypenny gives a sardonic snort, as she usually does when confronted with his lack of filter. "Tell us how you really feel, Q."

Bond just raises an eyebrow. "I assure you I am more than fit for service, Quartermaster."

Q just huffs, and turns back to Eve imploringly. She, immediately, becomes keenly interested in the budgets he's just handed in. He looks back at Bond, who smiles nonsensically at him, and feels bitterness rise in his throat.

"Unbelievable," Q murmurs, without the vehemence he intends. He turns on his heel and disappears back to the darkness and artificial light of the basement.

m m m 

Most of his torso is beneath the engine block of an Aston when he feels the tug on his pant leg. He rolls out from under the car rather inelegantly, but that doesn't dissuade the sick satisfaction of watching 007 grimace slightly as he straightens. Old dog, indeed.

"Can I do something for you?" Q asks flippantly, getting to his feet and wiping the grease from his hands onto a nearby rag.

"Tanner said he sent you mission parameters already," Bond replies smoothly, and Q tries not to let his eyes linger on the bob of his Adam's apple.

Q, wordlessly, begins to make his way towards his office. Bond follows him in without asking, of course, and proceeds to hover while Q brings up his work email and finds Tanner's latest directions. There's a suspected regrouping of SPECTRE forces in Tallinn that's raising everyone's hackles, but no one's had eyes on Blofeld yet. A number of double-Os are being deployed over the next few days with orders not to engage, but Q has the strangest feeling that somehow that's not going to work out. Again, he feels that same strange disconnect that had begun just after Blofeld escaped - an inability to feel at all panicked by what is surely going to culminate as a major catastrophe in the near future.

Bond's gaze prickles on the back of his neck but he refuses to let it ruffle him anymore than it ever has.

He spends a moment digging around for the correctly calibrated handgun, and then another long stretch of seconds passes before he sets eyes on one of the new blast proof radios, reinforced especially for 007. He places both into Bond's open palms but is met only with an expectant leer.

"That's it, then?" Bond asks. "Nothing that explodes?"

"I gave our last pyrotechnics to 009," Q sighs. "It's taken me months to win back her favor, you realize."

"Subira certainly can hold a grudge."

Q looks up, then, to find Bond smiling at him in a way that's almost sincere. It lacks the usual absurd edge that shrouds all of Bond's features and mannerisms; as it happens, there even seems to be something like apology coagulating behind his light eyes. The thought of Bond being even remotely repentant is absurd in and of itself, but he's never been one to ignore empirical evidence.

Bond begins to leave - quietly, his brogues making only the slightest tap against the concrete. Q feels himself move.

"Bond," he says, barely audible. Still, the agent turns, as though he was waiting for Q's call. There's only a split second of hesitation before they're meeting halfway, letting it boil over into a fervent, earnest kiss. Bond slips an arm around his waist just as Q's hand brushes against the straining tendons of the agent's neck. For a moment, everything is wild and hot and impossibly quick, and then they're both pulling away to breathe.

"Well, go on, then," Q gasps, nodding toward the door. He's still halfway wrapped around Bond, but he manages to break free one hand to pat 007 neatly on the chest in dismissal. "There's work to be done."


End file.
